Were it not for everything else, she might have smiled at the way he used the same nomenclature she had given her mother's killer as a child. Instead, she just bit her lip and nodded slowly. Not so different from her own dream, then, or at least part of it. The similarity wasn't altogether surprising; the fact that he would be so unsettled on her account was.

Trying to force a deeper breath into her lungs, she set one hand between them, the motion hesitant, an invitation and a reassurance.

"Usually when I dream about Scarif, you fall and don't get back up," she admitted. "All this time, and I can still see it."